2023 Untold Tales Youth Writing Competition Winners

“English Class”

By Amanda Hedin

In my IB English class, I read the book Men in the Sun by Ghassan Kanafani. After reading the first chapter, I told myself that I would not like this book. Everything was so different: the land, the language, the names, the writing. It confused me. And I didn't like being confused. So I decided I wouldn't like it. However, I had no choice but to keep reading. It was my English class book. I would need to be able to analyze it, to write about it, and be able to pretend I could relate to the struggle that the characters faced just by existing. 

So I kept reading. 

I read about how three men, against the odds, braved the desert – Marwan, Assad, and Abu Qais. Each endured heat, drought, despair, and deceit to reach Kuwait. They did so to reach for a life that was, to me, unthinkable. They yearned for something that I would see as a dead end. As a lock, with a key that had long been thrown away. 

I didn’t like the story, but I kept reading. 

I read about how they were forced to sit in a water tank. It had no ventilation and they were stuck in the stifling heat as they were smuggled across the border to Kuwait – all while I sat comfortably in my house, breathing air that was not laden with dust and desolation. I began thinking twice about all the things that I have never had to think about. 

I read about how they survived their first trip in the water tank, and how they were due for a second. But the smuggler was delayed while negotiating with some officials, and so he had no choice but to leave them waiting in the tank, caught under the sweltering heat of the sun. 

As I read, I found myself holding my breath along with the characters, feeling their suffocating desperation as if it were my own. It was remarkable that the lack of air of these three men, thousands of miles away in a fictional story, could grip me so intensely; could make my chest constrict and my lungs unable to fill properly; could make my heart and my head pound, and my soul scream for someone, anyone, to hear them. To free them. To help them. 

But they were alone. They were silent. When the smuggler opened the water tank, they were dead. They had just… died. 

I was confused. I was angry. I felt that I’d been robbed of the ending I’d thought had been coming. I sent my teacher a message because I felt so robbed of this feeling of hope, because I didn't think they would just die. Because how could they? 

When I told my teacher, she asked me “did you really think they were going to live?” And… I really did. 

It must be that I'm naive, and I'm young, and I don't know how the world works – because I thought that when you have people that are good and true, who want nothing but to live and let live, that they would get their happily-ever-after. Marwan would liberate his mother and sister from the relentless stinging whip of poverty. Assad would be freed from a married life that he did not want. Abu Qais would see olive trees planted on his farm. They would live, and life would move along with them. 

But they never reached Kuwait. 

And I must be young, and I must be foolish, but I feel it all, deeply. And despite my confusion, despite living in my bubble of sheltered reality, I am in no way able to relate to their locked existence. But I know nobody deserves what they consider the status quo. They shouldn't have to carry the burden of the poverty that we bestowed on them alone. Because I am aware that I live a privileged life. I am aware that I was born this way and that I didn't do anything to earn it – just like they did nothing to deserve the life that was thrust upon them. 

Despite all of that, I still feel. I still feel hope. I still feel regret for what happened to the men. I still feel guilty knowing that their deaths are indirectly the cause of people like me, and whom I represent. I know that I am young, and like my teacher said: “How could we believe that they would live, when the world is the way it is?” 

Tim O'Brien, one of my favorite authors, writes: “it doesn't matter if a story is true or not, what matters is how it makes you feel.” 

Marwan might never have wanted his family's economic freedom. Assad might not have been betrothed against his will. Abu Qais might never have wanted olive trees. Maybe they never existed. But those like them do exist. People like them are living through hell every day. People like them are left alone in the world, gasping for air, with no breath left to call for help. People like them exist when people like me are basking in the light, and the injustice makes my heart ache and my eyes burn. Because if they had breath left to cry out, to call for help, to yell and beg and scream their desperation, do you really think that people like me would listen? 

Men in the Sun is a book written by a Palestinian author about the plight of his people. It is a book I read for my IB English class and it made me think. Even more importantly, it made me feel. Marwan, Abu Qais, Assad and all the other men under the sun that never reached Kuwait might be dead, but as long as their story makes us feel, there is hope. I think that when we stop believing, when we stop feeling, that is true death. And the world isn’t dead yet.

Thoughts for Whoever's Up There

By Anonymous

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Dear Whoever's Up There,

I like numbers. Or at least I think I would. But don’t really get to know. That’s not how the whole You — I mean God or whoever you are — thing works here.

Girls don't get to go to school. Can you help me with that? I want to learn.

So, I don’t get numbers, but I can settle for words, right? No, the You — or more importantly the men in robes that say they speak for you — don’t really like that.

All of this could also be improved for me, for girls, if you wanted.

But maybe you think that’s cool, 'cause I get to do cool stuff. Like… engage… in… self determin - ed housework.

Good catch on my part. Self-determination? Who needs that when your nation has determined everything for you?

Yours not so truly.

January 12, 2023

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Dear Exalted One,

So, I am still not allowed in school, and that’s fun, ‘cause you know no education, no future.

On the plus side, I have more unstructured time. Which means more time to write you letters. And hope that you respond.

Though, I am honestly quite concerned. Because if you say you are in favor of the whole no-education-or-life-beyond-the-house-for-women thing, that would be kinda a bummer for like, ya know, more than half the world's population. Just a thought.

Also while you are taking input, can we talk about birth control? So do you have a problem with that? I mean I wouldn’t think so, 'cause ya know you like sort of took out your creation of Lilith when you realized she wasn’t going to be the way that you and Adam wanted.

The thing is that you were able to decide, which I am all for. Props to you for making that choice. But, just kinda curious: why can't I?

I guess, what I am trying to put into words here is that you gave us all brains and all the knowledge and tools to control our own lives. And now you're asking us not to use them?

Of course, you seem to think it’s still ok for guys to make decisions. That feels weird, like if you had wanted only men to decide everything, then why not just give them our brains? Why give us brains at all? (Just so you know, that’s not an idea for you to use. I like my brain.)

Also, while we are on the subject, isn’t family planning a major way to overcome so many problems? Like the homeless kids down the street that their moms can't care for and no one else seems willing to care for. Like so many women and children who don't have enough food to share. Like no one coming to help them. Like women who want more from their lives than endless chores and caretaking.

Why won't you just let women use their own decision-making, with the brains that you gave them, and the science that you gave all of us?

Just sayin' the way things are now isn't working out so great for women and children. And aren't we the ones who you say that you care about?

Just saying that you're not showing much caring with the way things work now.

I think we need a new plan. Let's just try something different. Let women decide for themselves what happens in own own bodies and our own lives. Let us use the brains you gave us. OK?

I also gotta say that we both know family planning is one of the best tools for not just preventing overpopulation of the beautiful planet that you created and ensuring forests and oceans aren't depleted, as well as dealing with climate change -- while also boosting quality of life on an international scale.

Just saying it would be a shame if your big lovely Earth plaything and all your beloved children suffered, died, or burned up because you weren’t clear enough on some of the rules and what is happening down here. So I really want you know that not letting girls and women make our own decisions isn't good for your beloved Earth and children.

Food for thought.

Sincerely.

February 14, 2023

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Dear All Knowing One,

Now normally I would say don’t tell me how to do my job and I won’t tell you how to do yours. But apparently, you get to tell me what I can and can’t do, so I am gonna tell you what to do. That seems fair.

So for starters, let’s get used to that divine smiting thing more. The next time you see rape, zap. The next time you see racially- or sexually-motivated murder or mutilation, pow!

Just to be clear: I am not advocating that you kill anyone. No, absolutely not.

But I just think a slap on the wrist could be really helpful. ‘Cause right now, this “justice system,” you have set up is run by some immoral people, appointed by even more immoral ones.

Please help us.

The law refuses to help, as do your men of the cloth. I would like to place more faith in you, but for the past hundreds of years that hasn't worked out so great.

I, like women hundred years before me, would say, “Don’t forget the women.” But you already have.

Please help. Please help the girls and the women.

Honestly, you'll be helping us all.

That’s it.

March 17, 2023

El Ascensorista

By Miguel Montaño

He estado cuidando este ascensor durante mucho, mucho tiempo, lo gracioso es que no recuerdo haberme presentado nunca. Ni siquiera recuerdo mi entrevista de trabajo, tampoco recuerdo mi vida antes de ser ascensorista. El trabajo no es difícil, solamente entra una persona, me dice a qué piso ir, oprimo un botón y el ascensor los lleva allí. Pero hay cosas extrañas que he notado a lo largo de mi oficio, hay mucha gente que entra llorando a los pisos, y no creo que yo los ponga tristes, solamente los entretengo con una charla poco interesante, sobre sus vidas, sobre qué hacen para ganarse el pan, sus familias, amigos, amores, de hecho, normalmente es ahí cuando empiezan a llorar, ni idea de por qué. Otra cosa que encuentro muy rara es que la gran mayoría de personas que pisan el ascensor son mayores, quiero decir, muy mayores, quienes normalmente van a los pisos superiores, entonces me dedico a cuidarlos en el viaje, ellos me hablan y me cuentan anécdotas sobre las cosas que hacían en los pisos por los que pasamos, Un hombre viejo una vez me contó cómo jugaba a la pelota con sus amigos en el piso siete, cómo dió su primer beso en el piso catorce, y se casó en el piso treinta y seis, entre otras cosas en los pisos subsecuentes, y créeme, hay muchos pisos subsecuentes. No me malentiendas, no trabajo en algún tipo de ancianato, a veces llegan gente en sus veintes o treintas, esos son los raros, siempre llegan confundidos y preguntándome qué hacen ahí, pues a ver, no lo sé, tú quisiste venir, supongo. Me gusta cuando llegan niños al ascensor, también están un poco confundidos, pero se acostumbran y nos la pasamos bien en lo que dura el trayecto, aunque es mucho más corto de lo que quiero que sea, la mayoría de los niños se bajan entre los pisos cinco y diez. Pero lo más extraño de mi trabajo es que todos los que se suben al ascensor, suban al piso que suban, no importa que tan alto esté, o que tan bien los haya tratado, la gente siempre sube, nunca baja.